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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562895">The Broken Rules Job</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeternalegacy/pseuds/amarane'>amarane (aeternalegacy)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Leverage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Hitman for hire, Leverage Secret Santa 2020, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:27:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeternalegacy/pseuds/amarane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knew that to disappoint Damien Moreau was foolish; to fail or to cross him was a death sentence. Damien Moreau made the plans, did the deals, and gave the orders. But in the end, he was not the one who pulled the trigger, raised his fist, or drew the knife. </p><p>For that, he had Eliot Spencer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Leverage Secret Santa Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Broken Rules Job</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingmidge77/gifts">musingmidge77</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em> The battleline between good and evil runs through the heart of every man. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn </em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Mr. Moreau would like to speak with you.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Few words were so indelibly etched into Eliot Spencer’s memory than this.</p><p>
  <em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </em>
</p><p>When he first left the United States military to join his first private military contractor, Eliot had found himself doing much the same job as he had been doing for Uncle Sam, just without a flag on his shoulder and a lot more zeroes in his bank account.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eventually, the jobs moved from warzones to board rooms. Protection gigs were lucrative but more often than not, slow and boring. While Eliot told himself that the pay was worth it, he could feel himself atrophying as a bodyguard. Yes, he was paid well for doing nothing more than being a rich man’s babysitter.</p><p>
  
</p><p>He knew he could be doing much more, much as he hated to admit it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Even with that in mind, Eliot took a hard look at Damien Moreau before agreeing to talk. The name may not have meant much to him at first but some digging on his part told him all that he needed to know. </p><p>
  
</p><p>As it turned out, Moreau’s name was not familiar only because his name was rarely spoken aloud, rather whispered in confidence among those who used his services. And those who used Moreau's services, Eliot was far too familiar with. Government officials, warlords, militias, and organized crime; Moreau was the fixer and financier to the most powerful people in the world and underworld. </p><p> </p><p>And much as Eliot hated to admit it to himself, the prospect of working for Moreau, no matter what that entailed, had to be more exciting than the boring protection gigs that he had.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Meeting Moreau for the first time was an experience that Eliot would never forget. The luxuriously appointed New York penthouse offered a stunning view of Central Park, with a security team that rivaled foreign dignitaries, giving credence to Eliot’s research.</p><p>“So. You’re Eliot Spencer.” Moreau rose from his seat, extending his hand. He nodded to the remaining security in the room, who left them alone. “I was hoping you would accept my invitation. Please, have a seat,” Moreau waved him towards a sumptuous leather couch across from him.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot nodded, taking a seat, watching as Moreau busied himself at the bar cart near his desk. He poured a snifter of brandy before opening a small drink refrigerator, taking out a bottle of Eliot's favorite beer. "Join me for a drink?" he asked as he held out the bottle.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot nodded again, accepting the bottle though hiding his surprise. The government officials and corporate executives he had been tasked with protecting as of late had barely spared him a glance and likely did not even know his name. Offering him a bottle of his favorite beer? That was certainly unheard of.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know why I summoned you?” Moreau asked. He had the quiet countenance of the man who was confident in his knowledge that he was the most powerful man in the room.</p><p> </p><p>And in this case, Eliot did not doubt it.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“No,” answered Eliot. It was mostly the truth.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“I have been watching you for some time now,” Moreau said, tapping a folder on his desk before sitting down on the couch, opposite of Eliot. “And I find it interesting that someone like you would have been languishing in the private military world for so long.” </p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot glanced at the folder. He had no doubt that the folder was a dossier in his life and activities, leaving him to make only one conclusion. “What's the job?” </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Less a job and more a career, quite a lucrative one,” Moreau said. “Something more befitting of a man of your talents, I think. No more babysitting.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot took a sip of his beer. “I’m listening.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“You would be independent, able to do things your way. So long as you conduct yourself with discretion, and to my specifications, I know you would be an asset to my organization.’”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot considered Moreau's words. “Sounds too good to be true," he said, not entirely trusting where this was going. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Rather like you, I think. After all, you are just an All-American guy who wants nothing more than a cold beer and a decent paycheck for your hard work,” Moreau observed. “That’s what you want people to believe.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“It’s the truth.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Part of the truth but not all of it,” conceded Moreau, taking a pull of his brandy. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“I ain’t soft if that’s what you’re suggesting.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“No, you are anything but,” agreed Moreau, getting up to cross over to the bar cart again. “Any of the other men out there,” he gestured vaguely towards the door with the bottle of brandy, “can handle the job with expediency. But your reputation tells me that you get the job done with a sophistication that the others just cannot match.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot shrugged. “I just do my job. That’s all.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“For an American, you’re humble. I like that.” Damien raised his glass. “My organization needs someone like you, Eliot. Someone whose work ethic can uphold the reputation of this organization when things get... complicated.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“And what’s in it for me?” Eliot wanted to know. “Besides a paycheck and a cold beer.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Moreau smiled. “Respect, for one. Something you've longed for and been lacking as of late. And talent must never be allowed to atrophy. My job would provide you the challenge you deserve and desire.” He took another sip of his drink. "What do you think, Eliot? Will you accept my offer?"</p><p> </p><p>Eliot considered it for a moment, and then raised his bottle. "Let me know when you got a job for me, and I'll let you know when it's done."</p><p>
  
</p><hr/><p>
  <em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </em>
</p><p>“Mr. Moreau would like to speak with you.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>Just as indelibly as the words themselves were etched into his memory, Eliot would remember every detail of the moment he delivered the message. </p><p>
  
</p><p>From the details of the room to the way their eyes widened with fear, to the type of weapon and technique they used to defend themselves, to how long it took from delivery to completion of the job, Eliot could recount it all. </p><p>
  
</p><p>There were a few times when Eliot was just there to deliver the message, nothing more. But even then, the fear -- no, terror --  in their eyes stayed with Eliot long after the task was done.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Most every time Eliot said those words, blood would be spilled; the exceptions were few and far between. Whether that event was to be merciful and immediate -- or not -- depended on the nature of his visit.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Most often, the calm ones sat comfortably surrounded by their own army, having wisely disarmed Eliot long before he came into contact with the target. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Being weaponless never stopped him; Eliot supposed that it made the fight fair. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Of course, in war, there was no such thing as a fair fight. You did what you needed to do to accomplish the mission, to be able to go back home. </p><p>
  
</p><p>It had been easy to continue that mindset as he moved on from government to private military work. He did what he did to get the job done, no matter what flag or company name he wore on his shoulder. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Whether it was recon, exfil, or assassination, the justification of abandoning the notion of a fair fight when fighting for the greater good, was easy.</p><p>
  
</p><p>But working for Moreau was no longer about being a soldier, fighting for a higher purpose. Instead, he fought in the shadows at Moreau’s bidding. People were brought in, or taken out, at Moreau’s discretion. </p><p>
  
</p><p>There was no higher purpose, no justification that Eliot could give himself for taking lives at Moreau’s behest. All that mattered to Moreau was that the job was done.</p><p>
  
</p><p>And Eliot would always get the job done.</p><p>
  <em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </em>
</p><p>How he got it done, that was always up to him. And the one way that he made peace with himself was that if he could not choose his targets, at the very least, he could choose how to do his job.</p><p>
  
</p><p>There were others on Moreau’s payroll that would not approve. Lucky for them, Eliot never gave a damn what they thought. Cats like Chapman were always chomping at the bit, eager to lay waste to any target that Moreau gave him, relishing the kill.</p><p>
  
</p><p>But that was not how Eliot worked. Eliot’s rules of engagement made things far more difficult for him than any other of Moreau’s enforcers. </p><p>
  
</p><p>His rules for himself demanded that he be better, more precise, more targeted. The own difficulties he placed on himself made him the best at what he did. </p><p>
  
</p><p>But he did things his way because it was the last vestige of the person he once was. So long as he had his honor, abided by his own rules, no matter if he was the only one who knew it, no matter how little he had left, he felt he could do what he needed to do for Moreau in peace.<em><br/></em></p><p> </p><p>Eliot knew that it was inevitable that a job would one day go sideways. Even the best hitter had their off days. </p><p>
  
</p><p>Even so, he was not expecting it to go as sideways as this one did.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Before Eliot engaged this target, he knew something was off. All of Eliot’s other jobs had been people who had knowingly been in business with Moreau. They knew that there was a risk of Moreau sending someone like him to rectify their business decisions.</p><p>
  
</p><p>But this target was not like the others. He was a loose end, an accidental witness to Moreau’s machinations, unknowingly having made himself a pawn in a deadly chess game.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was not Eliot’s place to question and he never left a job undone. He knew that Moreau was counting on that.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot was used to the look of panicked terror in his target’s eyes. Everyone he had ever killed had it, at some point, before he was done with them.  </p><p>
  
</p><p>What Eliot was not expecting was what his target screamed next, just before the bullet took him. </p><p>
  
</p><p>“Run.”</p><p>
  
</p><p>What happened next was pure instinct. Eliot turned, placing two shots to center body mass, eliminating the witnesses before his conscious mind could register more.</p><p>
  
</p><p>This was not the first time he had eliminated witnesses; it came with the territory. But in doing so, he had violated his own rules of engagement. </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> No innocents. No kids. No families. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>At his feet lay his target, the target’s wife, and their child dead in the wife’s arms.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eliot had seen many dead bodies in his life. A little piece of him died along with each life he took. </p><p>
  
</p><p>But now, there was nothing left. He looked numbly at the bodies, his mind screaming at him for what he had done. He no longer could justify his work, deny what he was.</p><p> </p><p>When push came to shove, when instinct took over, he was nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Instinct took over once again, as Eliot called Moreau on the burner. “Job’s done,” Eliot said, as he had countless times before. </p><p> </p><p>" I could always count on you," came Moreau's usual reply before he hung up.</p><p> </p><p>Eliot stared at the phone for a moment before taking out the sim and crushing it beneath his boot. The job was done and Eliot realized, so was he.</p><p>
  <em>
    <br/>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Leverage 2020 Secret Santa Gift Exchange for musingmidge77 :) One of your suggestions was what Eliot had done for Moreau so I hope I did this justice. I hope you enjoy it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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